her to anything she wanted. Today, she wanted new shelves for the library, an item not in the town’s very tight budget.
“We ought to have plenty of money,” Cassie said. “The Hard Rock Days celebration this year was the biggest it’s ever been. I know for a fact the Founders’ Pageant sold out.” She patted her hair, preening. The play devoted to telling the story of the town’s origins had been written and directed by Cassie, who’d also taken a starring role.
“The extra money we took in from Hard Rock Days doesn’t begin to make up for the money we aren’t getting from the state and federal governments this year. We’ve had to really tighten our belts. I’ve already warned people not to expect plowing of side streets this winter.”
“People around here can do without plowing. They can’t do without the library.”
Lucille was trying to think of a suitable response to this bit of skewed logic, perhaps by pointing out that if the streets weren’t plowed people couldn’t get to the library, when the cow bells attached to the back of her front door jangled. She looked up, hopeful of a customer who would necessitate cutting her conversation with Cassie short. Instead, Bob Prescott shuffled in.
“Afternoon, ladies,” he said, touching the bill of his Miller Mining ball cap.
Cassie wrinkled up her nose. “You smell like a brewery.”
Bob did have a faint odor of beer about him, but this was nothing new. He spent most afternoons propping up the bar at the Dirty Sally. “Stop by the saloon any afternoon, Cassie, and I’ll buy you a drink,” Bob said. “I predict it’ll do wonders for your disposition.”
Considering Cassie’s disposition was almost always bad, Lucille doubted alcohol would help. “What can I do for you, Bob?” she asked.
“You’re interrupting a private conversation,” Cassie said before Bob could reply.
“I was explaining to Cassie how the town budget is so tight this year we’ve decided to forgo plowing side streets for the winter,” Lucille said.
“I say we set up snowmobile-only lanes and forget about plowing altogether,” Bob said. “ ’Course, you won’t have to worry about that at all if we don’t get snow.”
“And I say new library shelves are a matter of liability,” Cassie said. “The old ones are falling apart. If we don’t replace them, someone could get hurt.”
Lucille met Cassie’s defiant look with a skeptical one of her own. Were the shelves in such bad shape? Or would Cassie see to it that they did start falling apart, even if she had to remove a few bolts to do so? She looked like a prim old maid, but Lucille knew she had nerves of steel. Coupled with her outsized sense of self-importance, it could be a recipe for trouble.
“I’ll have someone come down and examine the existing shelves for safety concerns,” Lucille said. “Maybe we can reinforce them somehow.” She turned to Bob. “Can I help you, Bob? I just got a nearly complete set of 1970s-era National Geographics and two solid brass spittoons in stock if you’re interested.”
“Nah, I’m here on official business, Madam Mayor.” He propped one elbow on the counter and leaned against it, his customary posture at the Dirty Sally.
“Official business?”
“You might say it relates to your conversation with Cassie. I’ve got an idea for a fund-raiser for the town. Something to liven up the quiet weeks after the summer tourists have left and before the ski crowd shows up.”
“We don’t get a ski crowd, Bob,” Lucille said. “That’s over in Telluride. The best we can hope for is a few folks who stop on their way to and from the slopes.”
“They’re all tourists to me,” he said dismissively. “What I’m talking about is entertainment for the locals and a way to bring in a little extra cash for the town coffers.”
Lucille leaned back, arms folded. “Let’s hear it.” Bob’s past ideas—all of them voted down by the town council—had included boxcar derby races down the steep main road leading into town, hiring a burlesque troupe to “liven up” the Independence Day celebrations, and letting tourists pay to be a miner for the day and work Bob’s claims with a pickax and shovel.
“Let’s start a pool on when the first snow will fall,” he said. “Charge five dollars a guess and the person who gets closest to the date and time wins half the money. The town keeps the other half.”
“I’m certain city-sponsored gambling like that is illegal,” Cassie sniffed.
“She’s right, Bob,” Lucille said. “We can’t do something like that. It was a good idea, though.”
“Humph. Nothing to stop me from doing it, is there?”
“You can’t run a gambling operation of any kind without a license,” Lucille said.
“Tell that to the weekly poker games in the back room of the barber shop.”
Lucille covered her hands with her ears. “I didn’t hear that,” she said loudly.
The door opened again and a distinguished-looking man with tanned skin and silver hair and moustache entered. Lucille’s heartbeat sped up and she fought the urge to smooth her hair or check the front of her blouse for lint. “Hello, Gerald,” she said, aware that her voice had taken on a musical lilt.
“You’re looking lovely as usual, Lucille.” He smiled, showing perfect white teeth she suspected were caps, but who cared? Everyone was entitled to his or her little vanities.
“Who are you?” Bob demanded.
Gerald’s smile never faltered as he turned to face the old man. “I’m Gerald Pershing. Who are you?”
“I’m Bob Prescott. I live here.”
“In this store?”
Bob looked as if he’d bit down on a walnut shell. He scowled at Lucille. “He a friend of yours?”
“Mr. Pershing is visiting from Texas,” she said.
“Him and half the state, feels like.” Bob gave Gerald a last dismissive look, then stomped out.
“So nice to meet you, Mr. Pershing. I’m Cassandra Wynock, the town librarian.” Cassie extended her hand, palm down, as if she expected Gerald to kiss it. Her cheeks were pink and while she didn’t exactly flutter her eyelashes, the suggestion was there.
“Nice to meet you, too, Miss Wynock,” Gerald said. He shook the offered hand but didn’t linger over it. Lucille fought back the urge to toss Cassie out onto the sidewalk by her ear. It had been years, but she recognized jealousy tightening her stomach and lending a sour taste to her mouth—a particularly ugly and useless emotion.
“I stopped by to see if you’d be free for dinner tomorrow evening.”
Cassie’s frigid silence alerted Lucille that Gerald was speaking to her. Her cheeks heated, and she busied herself straightening the stack of newspapers on the counter, avoiding his gaze. They’d had lunch once already—not a real date, just two acquaintances running into each other at the Last Dollar Café and agreeing to share a table. But the encounter had left Lucille feeling sixteen again. Well, maybe not sixteen. Some of the ideas she had when she thought about Gerald wouldn’t have entered her head at sixteen. Maybe twenty-six, then. Old enough to know what’s what and young enough to get it.
But who said she was too old to get it—whatever “it” turned out to be? Sex? Companionship? Love? Aware of Cassie staring at her, she smiled at Gerald. “Dinner sounds wonderful.”
“About those shelves . . .” Like a Rottweiler who’d grabbed hold of Lucille’s shirttail, Cassie refused to let go.
“I’ll send someone over to the library tomorrow to take a look at the shelves,” Lucille said, glaring at her.
Cassie